


No dogs in the Impala

by Zinde_Davouk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Freakout, Gen, Humor, Incest, M/M, Nothing explicit, Wincest - Freeform, avoiding the subject, dean being a drama queen as usual, dean talks to dogs, fluff...ish, there's a dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:16:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinde_Davouk/pseuds/Zinde_Davouk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester does not run away. He also does not run over dogs. Yet here he is doing both on the same night after deciding maybe kissing his brother wasn't a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial is not even a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> In which Dean over-reacts.

Dean doesn't run away. It's not a matter of opinion, but a fact. Just as the sun rises every morning, Dean Winchester does not run away.

What is he doing now, then?

Taking Baby for a three-hour ride around the small town, that's all. It has nothing to do with any little brothers and their stupid faces with their stupid eyes and their stupid mouths and their stupid perfect bodies. Nothing like that at all.

And he's not ignoring his ringing cellphone out of some stupid fear of talking about feelings or kisses or love or right and wrong or whatever. It's just that, well, he's driving and it's dangerous to keep your attention off the road. Which is also why he's not thinking about wandering hands bigger than his own exploring his body or long hair falling on his eyes as surprisingly soft lips kissed and kissed and kissed, or a knee nudging between his parted legs. Nope. No time for that.

Dean definitely did not start to panic because this is his Sammy, whom he practically raised, and is now desperately trying to undo the buckle of Dean's belt and this is so wrong but please don't stop keep going Sammy please...

He barely has time to register the dog before he runs over it.

"Damn." He whispers as he stops the car and gets out to check on the poor animal.

It's a huge grey dog, fur shaggy and matted. It's breathing heavily and its leg is bent in a way Dean's sure is not natural for a dog. He looks at it, back at the Impala, then back at the dog again. He knew he should have just gone to a bar, hook up with some skanky waitress and return to the motel room the next morning reeking of her perfume and hopefully no weird rash.

He lifts the surprisingly docile dog and carefully places it on the backseat. He is completely aware that this goes against his rules, but this was his own damn fault in the first place.

More like Sam's fault.

Sam and his half-lidded stares, open-mouthed kisses and soft hair that is just  _begging_ to be pulled. And just like that, his thoughts are back on that track.

His cellphone is ringing again. He looks at it not because he wants to answer, of course not. He needs to know the time. It's been about four hours since he first decided it was a good idea to make out with his brother and then proceed to have a major freakout. 

But really, it's not the worst thing they've done. He pictures his dad's disapproving face. He imagines Bobby spinning in his grave. His mom crying.

The dog whimpers.

"It's three in the morning. Let's just hope there's an emergency vet or something." Dean looks back at the wounded animal as he drives. Now those are real puppy dog eyes. "Look pal, I'm sorry. I really am. But don't worry, I'll fix it. I won't mess this up." The words leave his mouth and suddenly he's not sure he's talking _only_ about the dog.

He spots a lit sign with the word 'Emergency' and the outline of a dog and a cat, and parks in front of the small building. He carefully picks up the dog from the backseat and carries it inside.

"I, uh, I need help." The dog presses its face to Dean's chest, its muddied nose resting below his chin. 

A woman in dark purple scrubs motions for him to come into one of the rooms and Dean can't take his eyes off the unnaturally bent leg as he places the dog on the examination table. Stupid Sam and his stupid puppy dog eyes that don't look innocent at all when he's saying he's dreamed of this moment for so long.

"It was my fault." He finds himself telling the doctor as she examines the dog. "I ran him over." He scratches the back of his head.

"It's a she, actually." This doctor woman seems either awfully calm or so sleep-deprived she doesn't care anymore. Dean decides it's the former when he hears it looks worse than it actually is, but she'll take some x-rays just to make sure.

He wants to believe, he really does. He needs to make sure it's really not as bad as it looks and he's actually over-reacting, that it's actually going to be okay. He also hopes the dog's fine.

.

It’s not that he doesn’t want his sleep, he just thinks maybe he should ride around the town some more. You know, in case he finds another animal in danger or something. It’s almost five in the morning when he decides he should probably head back to the motel and ends up taking the dog with him. Her leg is on a green cast and is heavily medicated, due to come back the next day to be given another injection. She wags her tail lazily when he bends to carry her inside the room. He’s not exactly looking forward to it, but he’s a grown man. He is Dean Winchester and he does not run away.

The smell of cheap alcohol is strong as he opens the door. A collection of bottles is strewn all over the place and there’s Sam sprawled on the too-small bed snoring softly.

The dog sniffs around one of the bottles before licking the floor under it. Dean nudges her away with her foot. “You don’t mix alcohol and pain meds, girl.” He scolds.

He’s too tired to do anything more than toe off his boots, plop on the empty bed and stare at Sam’s stupid sleeping face with his stupid hair falling over it before falling asleep.

.

He wakes up to his face being licked and the smell of wet dog who rolled around in garbage and then played with dead animals. Sam is now curled up on the other bed. It’s not important, Dean thinks, but he fell asleep with his shoes on. Passed out may be more like it. It’s very rare for Sam to drink that much, let alone by himself. Why would he-?

And Dean remembers last night. Is it too early to drink yet? 

He sits up, facing his brother. The peaceful face he’s confronted with looks nothing at all like the soul-crushed expression he had on the last time Dean saw him awake, just before taking Baby for a ride around town. Not running away. Why would he?

“Don’t look at me like that,” he tells the dog that tries to wag her tail. “there’s nothing to talk about so I’m not waking him up.”

.

Three hours later Dean finds himself explaining to a very hung-over Sam that yes, that _is_ a dog eating some leftovers from the floor and no, they’re not keeping it. Neither man makes an effort to acknowledge any event that may have transpired before Dean ran over a dog.

“So what’s her name?” Sam slurs, and Dean definitely does _not_ think that ‘disheveled, hungover and confused’ is a look only his brother could make attractive.

“Dunno. And don’t matter ‘cause we’re not keeping it.” Dean gets up from the small table where they were each nursing a cup of coffee.

He tries to fill the silence that follows. Moves his chair around, taps his feet, drums his fingers, hums a tuneless song, anything to avoid—

“Dean, we need to talk.” –that.

“Gotta take the mutt to the vet.” Dean shrugs.

What can you do? Doggy needs her meds. If Dean looks away, it’s really not because he doesn’t want to see Sam’s heartbroken face, he’s just looking for his keys. And here they are in his pocket, as usual.

.

Turns out it really was a good thing the mutt has all that fur. It broke her fall so she wouldn’t break her hip. Somehow it doesn’t make Dean feel any better.

He’s starting to accept the fact that yes, he really likes his brother _that_ way and yes, they are both consenting adults and what they do is no one’s business but their own and no, last night wasn’t a fluke. He just needs to put it into actual spoken words and tell Sam that hey, he’s sorry he freaked out and can they try it again?

But of course, nothing ever is that simple in the life of Dean Winchester.


	2. They're not awkward, they're Winchesters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is seeing things

Four days. 

It's been four days and the dog is still around. Dean bathed her so she doesn't smell like death anymore and was surprised to discover her fur is actually light brown, not grey like he first thought. Of course, the act of bathing a dog with a cast on its leg is not something he's looking forward to repeating any time soon.

Also he hasn't said a word to Sam that is not related to either food or their previous hunt. 

Dean scratches behind the mutt's ear absently, doing his best to keep an eye on Sam without actually turning his head which is proving to be a very ineffective technique. The light from the setting sun hits his eyes and makes him see a young, long-haired and completely desirable little brother when he should just see an annoying one.

"I'm going out." He hears Sam say, but doesn't reply. 

He simply keeps reading the newspaper article about a strange string of deaths and scratches the dog. It's not long before she places her head on his lap and looks up at him.

"Stop it with your judging." Dean eyes her. "I'll talk to him, I promise. Worse comes to worse, he doesn't wanna try it again and we forget this ever happened."

If dogs could talk, Dean thinks right now she would be calling him a word that rhymes with 'Howard'. And Dean would pull a face and deny everything. As it is, nobody's being called out at the moment.

"What do you think of this, Sammie?" Oh yes, he named the dog. Her brown fur reminds him of someone who is very dear to him and currently not here. But that's not the reason he named her that, of course. He just thinks it'd be useful to make Sam know he looks like a dog. Maybe he should start calling the dog by her name when Sam's actually around.

Dean uses a pen to circle the article he's been reading. "Three deaths in the last two weeks. All men between twenty and forty five years old, all found burnt on the outside and liquefied on the inside. Sounds like a case, huh?" 

He figures since they're already here and done with the previous case, he might as well help out with this one. He grabs his stuff heads for the Impala. He doesn't need his brother for this at all. He's not even sure it's actually a case. He'll just go as around town for a bit, take Samantha with him in case there's trouble (a huge dog with a broken leg is still a huge dog, he reasons), and maybe go for a drink later. Sam doesn't need to know. He's probably busy doing some nerd stuff.

.

Sam is definitely  _not_ doing some nerd stuff.

Dean didn't even come here for a drink, he's following a lead. But as he tries to find a safe spot to park Baby he looks, and then looks again, at the tall figure currently getting real friendly with what looks like a biker who lost his gang in the alley between two bars. So he parks the Impala somewhere hidden and with a firm "stay in the car, Sammie" he gets out and walks with the determination of a man on a mission towards the groping couple. And Dean doesn't want to do this, really, but he's got to defend his brother's honor. Jealousy's got nothing to do with this. He didn't even think of that word just now. This is righteous anger at the sight of his brother being manhandled like that, at the sight of this stranger's hands that can't seem to get enough of his body. This is wrong and in no way kinda hot.

He's getting closer now and... Does this look like Sam at all? Maybe this isn't him. Why would he be? Why is he even doing thisn? He clears his throat. The guys keep going. Someone taps his shoulder. And he does  _not_ jump.

"Uh... Dean?" What do ya know, he was actually right: neither of the affectionate men is his brother. He sees Sam when he turns around and frankly he's so happy he could kiss hi- okay, not right now. "Why are you smiling like that?"

Dean refuses to accept the smile he has on right now may look more goofy than relieved. 

"I, uh, got us a case. C'mon." He doesn't even bother to ask where Sam's been or how he found him. He's just glad the tall man currently dry-humping another stranger is not his little brother. How could he have made that mistake? That guy looks nothing like Sam. He'd recognize his own brother anywhere even if he was blindfolded, disoriented and concussed, which has actually happened before.

"Does it happen to be the one with the gooey organs?" Sam asks as they approach the Impala.

Dean must have 'confusion' written on his forehead because Sam rolls his eyes and hits him with a very potent bitchface. "All the leads pointing to the house that belonged to one Erika Sherman? Possible vengeful ghost? Have you been listening to anything I've said lately?"

Not really, trying not to think about his brother, and all. Dean's very eloquent "...uh" only fuels Sam's anger.

"What's the deal with you?" Sam raises his hands, then plops them down again with a huff. He stops himself in the middle of the next word and just.. exhales.

Dean looks at his little brother, really looks, for the first time in four days. He doesn't remember the dark circles around the eyes being _this_ dark, the tiredness of his expression, the slight frown that looks almost permanent and the hurt that's written plain across his face.

"Sammy are you okay?" Dean finds himself asking. He thinks nothing of the way his hand comes up to cradle the back of his brother's neck, a natural gesture meant to show just how worried Dean is.

Sam looks back at him. Dean forces himself not to fall for the kicked puppy dog eyes and starts to look away. The little voice inside hishead calls him an idiot and Dean thinks it's right.

"We _really_ need to talk." The way Sam whispers, and the way he tenses up like it's taking him a lot of restraint not to move, does not make Dean- okay, it does make Dean shiver in a mix of fear and anticipation for what he's about to say.

Why can't they just make out and be done with it? Why does there have to be this talk about feelings and consequences and pain and... but he promised himself he'd do it. He is not running away.

"Okay." He whispers back, does everything in his power to look Sam in the eyes and...

A woman screams. The mutt barks from inside the car. A glass breaks.

The boys don't need to say anything. Both silently agree to postpone their little heart-to-heart in favor of the family business. As usual.


End file.
